


So It Goes

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Slaughterhouse-Five - Kurt Vonnegut, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean in the raw., F/M, M/M, slaughterhouse-5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gave his heart away and in its place he has a stolen paperback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> This is more about Dean than the pairing, so fair warning there. You definitely do not have to have read the book to read this, but it might add some flavor.
> 
> All italics are direct book quotes. Barring one obvious exception.
> 
> Also, I podficced it. [Click here for audio. ](http://soundcloud.com/veradragonmuse/so-it-goes-by-vera-dragonmuse)

_Listen:  
Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time. _

In October of 1983, John Winchester stopped in a library. It wasn’t something he did often though he liked reading well enough. He was wasting a little bit of time between work and going home for dinner. He’d fought with his wife that morning and wasn’t relishing the thought of returning to her domain with his tail between his legs. He had been wrong and she right and that made the argument all the more bitter in his mouth. 

He lingered in the library, picking through a shelf of books in a lazy manner. An older woman walked by the stacks and he called out, 

“Any recommendations?” 

She paused, looked him over and he shifted under her dispassionate gaze. 

“Vonnegut.” She decreed when she had finished her inspection. Then she reached for the shelf to his right, the brush of her body against him prickly and uncomfortable. A small paperback smacked into the palm of his hand. 

“Thanks.” He muttered, but she was already gone. 

He glanced at his watch. Late. Swearing, he walked out the door without checking out the book, then tossed it carelessly into the back of his car. Two weeks later the entire contents of his life, including his wife, but excluding his two young sons, had burned to the ground. The thin book hadn’t gone up in the flames. Instead, it had lodged itself under the passenger seat where the first person that sat in it would surely feel the sharp spine on their heel. 

The boys were too young to sit in the front. Dean huddled around Sam in the back. No one joined them as they left their hometown behind. No one sat in the front. The book stayed quiet. 

_So it goes._

Dean grew a little. Not much, but he was only seven. There was world enough and time for his legs to shoot up and shoulders to broaden. He was large enough to hold a gun. Large enough to be taught how to defend the car, the room, his brother. 

John took him out back and showed him how to shoot. Dean nailed target after target as soon as he understood what he was being trained to do. He would do right by his father. Right by his brother. 

His hair was cut short because John wasn’t about to waste time on niceties. His clothes were a little small on him already and the inexpert washings had bled them of bright color. There was a smudge of dirt on his nose and gunpowder on his hands. 

“You did good.” John clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a natural, son.” 

He let Dean sit in the passenger seat for the first time after that. The heel of Dean’s foot kicked against the book. When they stopped at a gas station, Sam crawled into the front and into Dean’s lap. 

“Something stuck up under there.” Dean pointed. “Can you get it?” 

Sam hung upside down. His hair was long, untouched by John’s knife. Sam would not submit to the demand of a blade. The untrimmed edges trailed over the floor mat as he searched. His small hand reached out and he dug up his prize, shoving the book into Dean’s hand. 

“Huh.” Dean tried to read the title, but it was too long with too many uncomfortable syllables. 

“It’s Dad’s.” Sam said, seating himself in Dean’s lap once more. Dean reflexively put a hand around his waist, drew him close and set his chin into Sam’s shaggy hair. 

“Nah. It’s just junk or something.” He tossed it in the backseat. 

When John came back, Sam had already returned to his assigned position behind the passenger seat. No one saw him rescue the book and tuck it into Dean’s backpack. Sam liked books, even though he couldn’t quite read yet. He thought they deserved better than being kicked around the floor. 

_“You know — we've had to imagine the war here, and we have imagined that it was being fought by aging men like ourselves. We had forgotten that wars were fought by babies. When I saw those freshly shaved faces, it was a shock. "'My God, my God — ' I said to myself, 'It's the Children's Crusade.”_

“Sammy!” Dean called out across the wilds of an unknown place. 

Then again, all places were unknown to him. 

Sam had run off. There one minute and gone the next. Gone for two days now. Gone as if he had never been. 

“Little brothers, right?” Some foolhardy other gangly boy had said in one blur of a schoolyard. “Wish we could be done with ‘em all.” 

Dean could not imagine life without Sam. Without Sam, it’s only him and Dad. Without Sam, they would rub against each other like a bone in it’s socket without cartilage. Dean was the bone and he would get worn right down to nothing. Sam was the meat, the heavy dark sinew that wrapped them all together and kept the pain from coming in like a tidal wave. 

Dean should be out with Dad right now, running down a furious ghost that had broken every headstone in church graveyard two states over. He should be holding a canister of salt and have a Latin prayer on his lips. That would be simple. That he could understand. 

Instead he was waist deep in a wet wheat field and the only prayer he said was Sam’s name over and over. He had a backpack hanging by one strap, filled with everything he would need for anyway he might find his brother. 

Just before he realized Sam was missing, he’d found a book buried at the bottom of the bag under strata of papers and pens. He’d opened the first page and drew a finger over a few words. Then he had looked up to ask Sam if he had shoved the thing in there by accident. Their backpacks were identical though they contained radically different materials and mistakes had been known to happen. 

Sam had already gone, out the door and away. Dean set the book back into the bookbag and it shifted there now, among first aid supplies and moth eaten blanket. 

“Sam!” He shouted and it was carried away on the wind. 

_He had supposed for years that he had no secrets from himself. Here was proof that he had a great big secret somewhere inside, and he could not imagine what it was._

The night Sam ran away for good, Dean slid into a bottle of whiskey. It seemed like the prudent thing to do. It was what Dad was doing at another, classier, bar across town. Dean had driven Sam to the bus station in the end and said goodbye with his arms crossed tight over his chest. 

“Be careful, Sammy.” Dean had said, an accident, a slip of the tongue. A signal of care just when he had wanted to telegraph practiced disinterest. 

“There’s no monsters where I’m going.” Sam told him, one arm around Dean’s shoulder and one foot on the steps upward into the darkness of the bus. 

There are other things that can eat you, Dean didn’t say. He wanted to drag Sam back into the car, back to their father. He stood on the sidewalk, freezing under t-shirt, flannel, sweatshirt and leather coat. Sam had never understood what monsters really were. Maybe he never would. 

For the first time, as Dean brought another shot glass clacking against his teeth, he wondered if that was for the best. It was a blasphemous thought and he drowned it in whiskey. 

The room was empty when he returned, the evidence of his father’s rage scattered over the floor. Here, Sam and John had stood toe to toe. Papers, furniture and panic had circled around them in a tornado that pushed Dean straight out the front door. He had sat on the porch, worrying his mother’s silver ring around and around his finger. 

Now, he picked up the pieces. The whiskey departed his mind and left it unhappily clear. 

The television groaned and provided no relief from the ache. He dug through his duffel sure that he had secreted a fifth of something among his underwear and socks. 

A hard rectangle bumped into his fingers. He drew forth the little book with it’s battered cover that had moved from bag to bag unread, but not quite forgotten for years now. For the first time he noticed the faded ‘Lawrence Free Public Library’ stamped in blue over the top of the pages. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t turn on the lamp. The moon was full and poured generous light over the pages as if lighting them up from the inside. 

Dean read with his knee tucked under his chin. He read, unaware that like Billy Pilgrim, he could weep without making a sound. 

_He had a tremendous wang, incidentally. You never know who’ll get one._

What Dean liked most about sex was the electric moment right before he came. He could feel his body gathering it’s resources, pushing his awareness and bountiful determination all to one goal. The muscles he worked hard for bunched and the thoughts he barely outran, sank out of sight entirely. 

“That was nice.” Kelly told him when he rolled off of her and gallantly into the wet spot. 

“Thanks.” He said into the round swell of her shoulder, brushing her soft skin with his lips. She reached over and ran her hand through his hair, nails a light scratch over scalp. 

“Wish I could keep you.” She said, quietly in the dark of the apartment. It was hers, small and neatly kept, but a wreck anyway. “Not for good. Not even for a week, but just like this for a little while.” 

“You can.” He offered and didn’t move though the wet spot was growing cold against his hip. Her nails were too sharp in his hair. 

“Don’t you want to bottle up these moments?” When she asked it in her soft midwestern way, it didn’t sound trite or silly. “Hold tight to the good stuff, so when the bad comes around you could take it out and smell it and remember?” 

“No.” He rubbed his nose against her arm, flickered out his tongue to taste her sweat. Her pussy had tasted meaty and real, but her sweat was acrid and he liked the bite of it. “Mostly, I like forgetting.” 

He stayed in her bed the rest of the night, listening to her breathe and watching the moonlight diminishing. 

_\- Why me?_  
\- That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?  
\- Yes.  
\- Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why. 

The fire raged behind them. Dean had an arm over Sam’s shoulders, pinning him to his side. Sam shook underneath him, not crying, not speaking. Just shaking like a one-man earthquake. It vibrated under Dean’s skin and made his stomach twist. 

“Sorry.” He whispered just once into the ridiculous pile of Sam’s hair. 

It wasn’t his fault. Dean had not set the fire. Dean had not asked for his father to disappear or Sam to leave in the first place. Dean had done as he was told, then been left without direction. 

But he was sorry anyway, holding his baby brother and smelling the ash in the air. 

Sam shook beneath him as though Dean wasn’t there. He looked at nothing and the paramedics said ‘shock’. Dean said ‘fuck off’ and loaded Sam into the passenger seat of the Impala like a recalcitrant piece of luggage. 

“She made me cookies.” Sam said without context hours down the road. Somewhere along the line it had begun to rain and the drops on the windshield threw watery shadows over Sam’s face. 

Dean thought about a single piece of pie saved for another day that never came. Their mother had cut it just so and kissed his cheek. She told him that they would eat it together after lunch. 

“So it goes.” He said and Sam looked at him blankly. Dean frowned at the radio. “There’s this book. With an alien race. They see in four dimensions and they live all of time at once? When they see a corpse they just think their friend is in bad shape that day. Because they can go back and see him at any point. He’s dead today, alive tomorrow. So it goes.” 

“Yeah?” Some awareness returned to Sam’s eyes. “Sounds like one of those crappy sci-fi books Bobby keeps under the attic stairs.” 

“Yeah.” Dean agreed, fingers tightening around the wheel. “It does.” 

_So it goes._

The worst memory Dean had was not of Sam dying in his arms. That was what he thought as he held Sam’s corpse. It was very close. It was certainly the saddest memory he had, but not the worst. At least in that moment, Sam was with him if deceased. At least, Dean thought he could fix this. 

He still thought his worst memory was standing in that field, Sam’s name hanging half-said out of his mouth and his shoes filling with squelching mud. 

He started talking because Sam always wanted him to speak. But the problem was he didn’t have anything to say. Not really. Nothing Sam didn’t already know. 

What he had was the question: 

“What do I do now?” 

There was no one left to tell him. So he made his first decision on his own. After that, it all went to hell. 

_“It was all right,” said Billy. “_ Everything _is all right, and everybody has to do exactly what he does. I learned that on Tralfamador.”_

Dean watched Sam sleep. It wasn’t creepy or strange to him. Sam fell asleep before him for so many years and his repose had always been fragile. If Dean turned on the television or rattled around too much, Sam woke up. So Dean had stayed awake in the dark, watching Sam. 

Tonight, he had Slaughterhouse-5 spread open across his left thigh. He wasn’t reading the book. There wasn’t a point really, he was as familiar with the words as any exorcism ritual. He’d read Vonnegut’s other books over the years. He never liked them exactly, but he finished all of them which said something. There were a stream of broken spined paperbacks left across the country with only a chapter or two read before he shucked them off like clingy girlfriends. 

Maybe if he were Sam, he could articulate why he read Slaughterhouse-5 over and over again. Maybe Sam could analyze the fragmented storyline and the broken up story of Billy Pilgrim. Dean didn’t even like Billy much. Billy never did anything. He was a fragile man tossed around by fate without a fight. He let everyone walk over him. He probably hallucinated his entire alien abduction since it sounded more like a kinky fantasy to Dean than a real experience. 

But Billy had become Dean’s friend: dependable, locked on the page and living his ups and downs, his ups and downs, as reliably as the sun went rose and set. 

“I’m going to hell.” He informed the book, Sam’s back and the peeling wallpaper. 

He hadn’t said it aloud that much, but the sound of it wasn’t too bad. He said hell all the time. It had lost meaning as a word. 

“I’m going to hell.” He said again. 

“No.” Sam said from under the blankets, just his long hair and dark eyes peering out. His mouth was tucked out of sight and voice muffled. “Not going to happen.” 

_So it goes._

Dean went to hell. 

_Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt._

“What happened?” Sam pressed hard like he could stem the psychic bleeding. “What was it like?” 

_Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt._

But it wasn’t a wound. 

_Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt._

Dean mouthed the words to himself as Sam leaned heavily against him, questions buzzing around their heads like flies. 

_Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt._

Castiel had laid a hand on him and the burn of heavenly fingers on Dean’s arm had been the first pain he had felt in countless years. 

_Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt._

Outside of those blood soaked eternities, Dean couldn’t think of a time when something hadn’t hurt. A rib, an old fracture in his wrist, the stab wound in his right thigh. His heart. Well. That had been a lost cause for years. 

_So it goes._

The apocalypse kept on not coming. It grated on Dean, wore him down. Sam kept trying to build a bridge from guilt to reach Dean’s bank and it collapsed into the river that pushed them farther and farther apart. 

Sam had raised Lucifer, Dean thought over and over, uselessly, as they sat at a diner with empty plates and silence between them. Sam had lied and killed and shredded Dean down to the gristle. But Dean had wanted him back so badly that it made his teeth ache. Being alone didn’t suit him. 

“Here.” Sam set a golden triangle of pie in front Dean, cherry oozing from every angle. “Waitress said it’s pretty good.” 

Dean sank his fork into the tender crust, watching the red and the gold. Reluctantly, he turned his eyes up to Sam, who hovered nervously above him. 

“This is huge.” Dean fished around the empty plates for Sam’s ranch dressing soaked fork. He licked it clean, then put it back in Sam’s hand. “Share.” 

Sam didn’t protest with any of the thousand reasons they didn’t need to share. He sank his fork into the other side of the slice, catching up the viscous red fluid and slid the bite between his lips. 

“It’s good.” He said. 

“It’s pie.” Said Dean. “Of course it’s good.” 

Two states away, a werewolf was raising it’s shaggy head to the moon. They’ve been trailing it for miles and tomorrow they’ll find it. It will have already killed again. 

“Do you remember that apple pie in Vermont?” Sam asked, all hopeful eyes and hair falling over his forehead. 

“Yeah.” Dean’s smile hurt a little at the edges. “You fell out of the apple tree.” 

Dean had laughed for a second, but then Sam hadn’t moved. He’d raced down out of the neighboring tree. He had thought Sam was dead for one long minute, but then Sam’s eyes had opened and Dean’s heart had restarted. 

“First concussion.” Sam said ruefully. The werewolf was running now, off across the woods and toward a campground. “Probably shook something loose.” 

“Nah.” Dean ate another bite, savoring the tartness. “You were always a little unstable.” 

“Thanks.” Sam kicked him under the table. The werewolf panted and scented a laughing couple. The pie dwindled to nothing, but a smear of cherry under their warring forks. 

_If this sort of selectivity had been possible for Billy, he might have chosen as his happiest moment his sun drenched snooze in the back of that wagon._ [among the ruins of the bombed out Dresden] 

When Dean thought about Sam in that long year, his boozy mind circled back to one day. One quiet night. 

They had sat on the hood of the Impala with beers in their hands and nothing heavy between them. It had been chilly wherever they were and they’d wound up pressed together to hold the warmth between them. Sam had pointed upward, breaking the silence. 

“Falling star.” He told Dean, his breath rustling the short hairs just above Dean’s ear. 

“Make a wish.” Dean had said, voice laden with cynicism. “Or hell, say a prayer.” 

“Maybe I’ll do both.” Sam replied without irony. He drank his beer and set the empty at their feet with its brothers. 

“Won’t do you any good.” 

“Can’t hurt.” 

For an incremental moment, Dean leaned entirely against Sam. His brother took his weight easily and without comment. 

“What are you thinking about?” Lisa asked him whenever that memory ambushed him. 

“Sam.” He answered because he saw no need to lie. 

“Yeah?” She would frown then pull him close and kiss his neck. At the time he thought it was comfort. 

In retrospect, he wondered if she was laying claim. 

_So it goes._

He never got to enjoy Sam coming back. From the start there was something wrong, a bitter taste behind the sweetness of their reunion. At first, Dean assumed it was leaving Lisa and Ben behind. It took him painful sandpapered days to put the truth together. 

Sam without a soul said a lot of things. 

The only one that hurt was “I’m not your brother”. 

Dean thought that one might ring in his ears for a long time. 

_God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to always tell the difference._

The book had been tucked in with a bundle of forgotten stakes. Dean repaired the Impala during the day and read it at night. Sam clattered around the house with Bobby as if their combined noise could drown out the news stories that flowed from any radio or television that Dean passed. His fingers sought out dials and power buttons without his consent. He listened to the destruction left in Castiel’s wake. 

“Hey Cas.” He said in the dead of night when the book wasn’t cutting it anymore. “You probably can’t hear me over your enormous ego, but... Just. I’m reading this book and there’s this prayer in it. I think it’s the AA prayer or something. You probably know it. 

“I keep thinking that it sounds like a great idea. Maybe if we all followed it in this fucked up family, we wouldn’t be here. I mean, come on. I don’t think anyone of us have ever accepted a goddamn thing. And let’s not get started on serenity.” 

“You can’t say goddamn when you’re praying to an angel.” Sam chided, leaning in the doorway with his pajama pants slung low around his hips and one of Dean’s t-shirts stretched too tightly over his chest. Dean’s lips were dry and he licked at them uselessly. “Or a god. Probably especially not when it’s a god.” 

“It’s an instruction. He’s a damned god, isn’t he?” Dean wasn’t even sure where to put the emphasis. Because Cas was probably damned, able to damn and a real dick at the moment. 

“What are you reading?” 

Sam crossed the floorboards and they creaked below his weight. Then the bed groaned as he sat on the mattress. They hadn’t shared this thin cot in over a decade, but Dean could still remember curling around Sam’s prepubescent body while cicadas sang in an ever rising crescendo outside. Sam had had the flu and he had clung and rolled away in feverish turns. 

“Just a book.” 

Sam lifted it from his hand and turned the battered paperback this way and that. 

“I remember this one.” He brought the pages to his nose and Dean would have made fun of him if it didn’t feel as if Sam was holding Dean himself in his hands. “I never read it.” 

“You wouldn’t like it.” Dean took it back as soon as Sam’s grip looked loose enough that it wouldn’t become a tug of war. 

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to always tell the difference.” Sam recited. “It is the AA prayer, but also good advice.” 

“We’ve never listened to good advice.” Dean chided. And Sam laughed. 

_So it goes._

The whole world peeled Dean back layer by layer. First Cas, then Bobby, then Sam. Skin, veins and muscle. He walked his skeleton around, bones rattling against one another. There was work to be done. A world to save. No one else was going to do it. 

For a brief, helpless moment, Castiel was himself again. Not God or Emmanuel or a drunk. He was just Cas and Dean wanted to reach out and trap him almost as much as he wanted him to heal Sam. 

“He took it from me.” Sam said, when they were already safely away. Dean tried not to turn the car back around. The handprint on his arm burned, his bones ached in their sockets and he felt as raw as a fresh cut steak. 

“We can’t accept anything.” Dean reached over and jerked the radio on with a vicious twist. Music poured out as thick as syrup and he buried himself in the percussion and the endless yellow line of the road. 

_There are almost no characters in this story, and almost no dramatic confrontations, because most of the people in it are so sick and so much the listless playthings of enormous forces. One of the main effects of war, after all, is that people are discouraged from being characters._

In Purgatory, Dean had a goal: Find Castiel and get back to Sam. 

He could kill indiscriminately because no one meant anything. It was the fourth dimension with all it’s meaningless monsters. It was an alien planet. Stranded with a knife and his wits and his emptied out mind, Dean could do what needed to be done. 

“You all right, brother?” Benny asked, teeth stained red with blood. 

“Never better.” Dean said honestly because he saw no reason to lie. 

_So it goes._

“Sammy.” Dean said late one night when they were still both small enough to sleep together on the backseat of the Impala.

“Hey.” Sam said back, wrapping his fingers into the belt loops of Dean’s jeans. Their hearts thudded together underneath their t-shirts and the blanket over them cut off any stray beams of light. 

“It’ll always be you and me.” Dean said reassuringly though Sam had voiced no fear. They were together and Sam was too little to understand about monsters. Dean had only just begun to know them. He was many years away from seeing one in the mirror. 

“I know.” Sam smiled, dimples pressing into Dean’s neck and his small lips brushing over the sharp point of Dean’s clavicle. 

Earlier that day they carved their initials into the car, tucked them away where Dad would never see them. Sam had laughed at the tiny blasphemy and Dean’s hands had shaken as he held the knife. 

“Always.” Dean repeated like a vow he had heard on television. 

He gave his heart to Sam right there and then. Sam would always be there. Sam would keep it safe. 

_So it goes._

They kissed just once. 

They sat on the hood of the car. Sam pointed to the falling star. They talked, then Dean turned his head. 

Their lips touched, warm and deep. Too long to be an accident. Sam’s hand rested on Dean’s left thigh, spread open and white as a page. 

They never talked about it. Dean never regretted it. 

_So it goes._

“When this is over, I’m out. “ Sam said. 

_Listen:  
Dean Winchester has come unstuck in time. _

He sat on the hood of the Impala, Sam’s hand wide open on his thigh. 

He stood in a wheat field, water wicking up his jeans. 

He fired a gun and his father put a hand on his shoulder. 

He was in hell. 

He was in hell. 

He was in hell.

Castiel stood too close. 

Sam fell out of the apple tree. 

Bobby played catch with him in a field. 

He spread a book on his thigh and read while tears splattered the page.

Castiel cut himself to ribbons to save them both. 

Bobby called him an idjit. 

Dad died. Dad came back. Dad saved them. 

He found Sam in a little shack and shook him until his teeth rattled in his skull. 

Castiel held up a boardgame between them. 

He watched a building burn and pulled Sam into the safety of their car. 

Bobby disintegrated with a sigh as his flask burned. 

He chased after Death to wrest back Sam’s soul. 

Kelly ran nails over his scalp and talked about memory. 

Dad pressed a gun into his hands. 

He let the only being he might have loved trade himself for Sam’s mind. 

Sam fished a book out from under the seat. 

He carved his initials next to Sam’s. 

Just once, he kissed Sam and their bodies knew each other. 

“Maybe I’ll do both.” Sam had said, setting down his beer. 

“Won’t do you any good.” 

“Can’t hurt.” 

Dean turned his head. He knew they were about to kiss. He wasn’t remembering now. He was there. He could smell the hops on Sam’s breath and feel each finger of Sam’s hand through his jeans. 

“You and me.” Dean said in the tiny space between them. 

Sam kissed him. 

_And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt._

Sam found the ratty paperback a week after Dean and Castiel had been scrubbed from the earth as if they never existed. The book was jammed under the passenger seat, probably fallen there from some late night reading. He handled it like an archivist and read it all in one night. It was just him, the car and the ink Dean had touched so many times with his calloused fingertips. 

Dean had been right: Sam didn’t like it. Every word was a landmine of memory and worry. He read Dean’s life between the lines and doubted his every interpretation. 

Sam salted and burned the book in lieu of a corpse. Just him at the pathetic funeral. He choose a quiet spot where Singer’s Salvage had once stood. As the smoke rose around him, Sam pressed his fingers to his mouth. 

“Dean.” He said and the word hung on his lips like a prayer. 

_So it goes._


End file.
